Its one thing to think, another to know…
An aspiring author's collection of thoughts and musings, channeled through the written word.
Its one thing to think, another to know…
Reblogged from eddplant
[tw: cissexism, sexual harassment, implied rape]
You wanna be Peter Pan.
You wanna be that fairy-dusted disaster that conquers Hook and slays pirates because that’s what strong boys do.
But they gave you a dress, and a name to match, and a lot of pink stuff you’d never play with.
You loved action figures just as much as dolls (yeah, you love dolls, don’t lie).
You don’t walk like a lady though.
You flunked ballet class.
“You can’t go, it’s boys only.”
“Don’t wear swimming trunks, wear a bathing suit.”
“You’re too old to be a tomboy! GROW UP.”
You can’t fly. You never will.
Even days when you’re wearing the perfect clothes
people will stare and say, “Is that a girl or a boy?”
And you smile to yourself because today,
maybe you might just pass,
but then you see their eyes register no facial hair,
no knot in your throat, no bulge in your pants, they say it again.
“IS THAT A GIRL OR A BOY?”
This time they know and they just wanna see you squirm
and you do and they snicker and give you that look that says, “You aren’t human here.”
You’re stuck with the body you’ve got and the gender you don’t
There’s no fairy dust
No flying away
No childhood dreams
So you’re doing the best you can.
You rock your indecisive parts proudly,
but there are days when you can be shattered by a quick tongue.
Days when men argue about the lines of your body, and then one says, “It’s got tits.”
because you’re not worthy of any other title.
Days when girls will hate you for what you are
whatever you are
you aren’t human here.
But I’ve got tits.
So on that day when he said to me,
“I don’t care if you’re gay, I’d still fuck the shit out of you,”
I should’ve been willing, right?
But I wasn’t.
So I walked faster trying to escape his leering face,
the look of malice in his eyes that I’ve seen in so many other men
“I’ll fuck you straight, girl.”
I don’t know how much of a girl
I am but at that moment I wished I had the knuckle strength of men.
But I don’t, so I left my pride in this throat,
I would try to glue myself back together for tomorrow
because there are always gonna be days like this.
Days when you have to carry your somber heart like a coffin,
days when you pass until you slip and let your words fall from your mouth carried by a feminine voice and they know again.
Know that you’re not a him, or a her, but something in between, not human to them.
What an abomination. What a monster.
Why can’t you be normal with your dress, your boyfriend, your virginity?
They wanna paint you the color of smashed hymens.
They want you to know that naked, you will always be soft like a woman;
naked, you will always have the parts of a woman,
you, IT, your telltale breasts
you will NEVER be one of those strong boys.
you are far from Peter Pan but learn to hold your back like a flagpole,
it’s all you’ve got out there.
there’s no Neverland.
I’m happy I was born into a body I love. And its truly disgusting to see people get treated like this by other human beings. It’s awful to know that there is someone out there crying because they’re playing into a role society made up like a fairy tale and tells them they don’t belong in. How can you do that? How can you make something up and then say to a person, “This thing I invented is not for you”.
And maybe I’m wrong, for caring for people who hurt. For wanting to be there for every broken soul to wipe their tears and tell them that they are LOVED. By me, at the very least, implicitly. Regardless of choices, regardless of little boxes made by other people that they should NEVER feel obligated to fit into.
What makes art truly powerful, is the emotion behind it. So thank you, for enduring hell to make something beautiful.
What do you do when the thoughts permeate into every waking experience? When even your dreams become tainted with your memories, and there is no escape?
Who’s eyes do you look into to make it right again? Should you even try?
Do you throw yourself away, beg others to treat you carelessly just to get that shred of a moment where things hurt too much to remember?
Or when the shakes start, do you shiver under a stream of hot water, huddled up alone and pray that no one can hear you crying over the sound of the drumming tat tat tat of water against skin?
Its easy, when the weight starts to melt from your bones, to mouth condolences to those who ask about how you took ill recently, or last month, or six months ago. Anything to make the questions die on their lips, and them to utter the pitying ‘get better soon’, like its some disease you just have to kick. But that’s what you told them, so that’s what they believe, and your chest makes a dry cough that rattles through your body like sheet metal, echoing and reverberating through every limb.
The easy part is making everyone else believe you’re okay. They’re too quick to jump to any explanation you supply, as long as they don’t have to provide more than a pitying glance or a few platitudes.
Its easy, to stay alive, because that’s what the instincts tell you to do, and that’s what is expected. Its hard, to live.
What do you do when the thoughts permeate into every waking experience?
Blow a kiss goodbye, and smile.
And I crawl into bed and try to forget that it feels like a stranger, and when morning comes, it is a stranger that holds your hand too long and kisses you when they’re drunk and you let them not because you want it, but because you don’t see the point in resisting. And maybe in some way, it’ll give me comfort, but I wake up feeling ill, and hungover, and I’ll wonder why my body lies, and fakes the pains of revelries I never had, but mostly, I’ll just get up, and then come home to the same bed, feeling estranged and a stranger to it, and wake up in the same way and wonder as I do about why we can’t be lovers, or at least friends as we were.
Its funny, the only one I’m trying to convince is myself. And all I seem to do is convince everyone else.
You talk like you’re trying to save yourself from a lawsuit, not like you actually care. Its all about you. Maybe I’d believe you if you actually asked me a question. Even feigning interest in my life would be better than the complete disregard you show towards everything about me that doesn’t get you what you want. You say you don’t want me to feel used, but seriously, be honest. You don’t give a crap about how I feel so long as it doesn’t affect you. And if I say no, I guarantee you’ll never talk to me again, because that’s how much you’re invested in this. Its common courtesy to ask someone how they are after they ask you the same. Even if you don’t mean it. Denying me that, pretty much says what you think of me. I’m an object to be used, like anything else. My litany of conversation to be tolerated until you can change it to something that serves your purposes. And maybe you’re avoiding learning anything about my personality to protect yourself, or to make sure you don’t get invested. But I don’t care. So you’ll use me, like you want to, and I couldn’t care less. Because I’m using you right back. Addiction 101, never give an addict an opportunity to get their fix, because they will do anything to get it. You’re just making it easy on me.
I stood under a jet of water while waiting for the pills to take over. Allowing the numbness to wash through me as I lost myself in the drum of liquid on my skin.
I leaned forward so the stream could make its way down my spine, my hands flying to slide over my body in its wake to soothe the nerves that cried out as the almost-too-hot spray gushed over them. I held my warm palms there, allowing my body to adjust before resuming my enjoyment.
I turned the shower head to massage and, catlike, arched beneath it, moving myself to service my every whim, and it beat out the aches in muscles that had been tight for too long.
Mist warmed my ear as the water fragmented off my shoulders and wove its way down in mini waterfalls and brooks, following every curve as though it was a net holding me in bliss.
Eyes closed, I could feel my grip on this state slipping, and sighed regretfully as I eked out my last moments of consciousness.
Toes splayed out on a pelt of polyester, and I jostled myself with a towel before stumbling into a welcoming bed.
With the pills taking hold, I surrendered myself to the soft darkness, leaving behind the cancerous emptiness that had threatened to engulf me.
Reblogged from tommilsom
Ali Shapiro, I Keep Trying to Leave but the Sex Just Gets Better and Better (via internetsafety101)